


the bookshop of the spy

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Ambiguity, Book Collecting, Gen, gifts without obligation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: Abigail hears from the foxes that there's a spy running a bookshop in Soho. She goes to investigate.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 125





	the bookshop of the spy

There was a funny bookshop in Soho that all the foxes said was run by a colleague. Abigail had never met a spy, except for the foxes and Nightingale, so she went there. It was nestled in among a little knot of sex shops selling, variously, bustiers, dildos, and probably drugs. The sign over the door said 'A.Z. Fell & Co., Books.' The sign on the door said _Closed_. The opening hours might as well have said 'fuck you.' Peter would have gone into paroxysms of joy about how authentic it was.

Abigail peered through the genuine wavy glass and got the myopic impression of tall bookshelves and dust. She couldn't make out any titles, but the books looked leather-bound. Never mind Peter - Postmartin would have gone into paroxysms of joy.

She rang Professor Postmartin, just in case they were friends.

"Hello, Abigail," he said delightedly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"There's this bookshop in Soho, A.Z. Fell," she said. "And I'm standing outside it and do you know the owner?" Because mentioning the foxes would be tipping her hand, see.

"Oh, yes," Postmartin said. "He and I often compete against each other bidding for unusual books about magic. More so in the old days - I think these days he's mostly retired, although what he would have done if he'd heard about the third _Principia_ I really do not want to know."

"He stocks books about magic?" Abigail said. "Is that allowed if he's not with the Folly?"

"There's an Agreement," Postmartin said simply, which she supposed for him and Nightingale meant it was all settled - or at least for Nightingale, anyway.

"Does he ever open?" she asked.

"Not much these days, but I have his number if you want to look at the collection," Postmartin said. "Just promise you won't try to buy anything."

"I won't try to buy anything," Abigail said. Besides, if there was something she really wanted, they could probably come to an arrangement.

A.Z. Fell, through Postmartin, allowed that he would be in town the following Thursday, and could be persuaded to meet with Abigail as long as Postmartin supervised. Tea might be forthcoming, as long as it went nowhere near the books.

Abigail showed up promptly, dressed in the good slacks she'd been handed down from Auntie Beth and a button-up shirt, because this was professional. Postmartin was waiting for her at the door, and when he knocked - the sign still said _Closed_ \- it was opened by a portly middle-aged white geezer in tartan, who proceeded to physically stand in the entrance like he wanted to block them from coming in.

"Hello," he said. His face was smiling but his eyes were sharp, what Peter would've called _proper copper's eyes_. "Dr. Postmartin, and - Abigail, was it?"

"Yes," Abigail said, and stuck out a hand so he'd either have to let go of the door to shake or be inexcusably rude. "Thanks for letting me see your collection."

He shook. Like Nicky and Beverley, he gave off a kind of background vestigium, but it wasn't nearly as strong. The watery-eyes sensation of looking at a bright light too long, although maybe that was a previously-unknown dust allergy; a stomach-sinking hard pressure she would later recognize as the lift of an airplane taking off; and the sense of metal and fire like the forge at the Folly.

"So good to meet you," he said. "Always happy to meet the apprentices of the Folly."

"You've met other apprentices then?" she said, neglecting to mention that she wasn't an official apprentice.

"Not for some years," he said, which pretty much meant he was some kind of fae, because she knew for a fact that the last official apprentice before Peter had been in the 1940s, and nobody counted the one that didn't count.

He brought out a catalogue, a big hand-written one in an enormous ledger, and said, "This is the index." It was all written in a meticulous old-fashioned handwriting that she couldn't interpret, but which Postmartin evidently could, because he said, "Ah! The Rosso. I'd forgotten you beat me to that one."

"Yes," Fell said, and a little edge of smugness curved his mouth. "I restored it some time ago."

"You're certain you couldn't part with it?" Postmartin said. "Now that you're semi-retired and it's been properly restored."

"I really couldn't," Fell said.

"Ah, well," Postmartin said in unsurprised disappointment, and went back to it.

" _You_ don't have the last ledger, do you?" Abigail said, just in case.

"Jonathan Wild's last ledger?" Fell said. His eyes focused on her, and when she nodded, he said, "I wasn't aware it had recently come up for sale." But he didn't believe it didn't exist, either.

"It was," she said. "It was involved in a case a little while back."

"The one that put the Chestnut Tree in Cecelia's keeping, I suppose?" He smiled at her, like this was a very clever game they were playing and he was amused at her babyish inexperience. She just _bet_ Peter would _love_ talking to him.

"I don't know about that," she said.

His smile broadened, and he said, "Shall I get you some tea?"

Before Postmartin could, she said, "Yes, thank you."

He came back a few minutes later carrying a fussy little tray with three delicate china cups of what smelled like fancy tea, and even a pot. She took the tea when it was offered to her, and he set the tray down on a nearby desk without even offering to Postmartin, who was still reading the catalogue. There was no way she was getting to look at any books, then. That had been pretty slick of him, but she could put down her cup if she wanted.

"You didn't know about the ledger then," she said.

"I didn't know it was for sale," he corrected.

"And if you had?"

"I'd have tried to buy it, of course." He sipped genteelly at his tea. She got the feeling he was used to having lace cuffs.

"So you didn't hear from Reynard Fossman about it being for sale?"

"If Reynard Fossman had told me about it," Fell sniffed, "I would own it by now."

"Or from the listing on eBay?"

"E-bay?" He very clearly pronounced the dash, even as his voice rose approximately an octave into a shocked shriek. "Whyever would - no, don't tell me." He put his face into his hands.

"Like a car boot sale," Postmartin said in a commiserating sort of way.

"No," Fell said. "I did not hear about it being sold on E-bay." He picked his cup back up from the side table and drank deeply. "Who did win the auction, then?"

"There wasn't one," Abigail said.

"It's in a private collection," Postmartin said.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Fell began to pour himself a refill on the tea. "I believe I have a more modern catalogue of books on magic not yet owned by the Folly," he said to Abigail. "If you'd like to see that."

"That would be very kind."

She took notes in her notebook for later reference. There was one that purported to be a scientific-magical treatise on quantum theory that dated to the 60s, and she didn't think either Postmartin or Nightingale would have been paying attention then. Peter would probably be happy to see it, if Postmartin could convince Fell to let Peter in.

Afterwards, she went to Nightingale with her notes and her impressions.

"Oh, yes, Fell's," he said when she brought it up. "He was quite the enigma back in the day - everyone wanted to figure what kind of fae he was. But he's quite invested in books, and never made any trouble that we could tell, and believe me, my predecessors looked. But he had connections on the Continent, you know, and was always willing to get something in for any of the members if the librarians here said no. And if you didn't mind him reading it first."

"Really?" she said.

"Yes. He had a good selection on snake myths, as I recall - a bit of a research interest of mine when I came back from India. He was also involved with the Sons of Weyland back in the day, so he helped with brushing me up last year."

"He's a smith?" Abigail said. That would explain the metal and fire part of his vestigium.

"Swordsmith," Nightingale said.

"But do they glow blue in the presence of ethically challenged practitioners?" Abigail said, because sometimes she had to.

"No," Nightingale said. "They catch on fire."

"They _catch on fire_?"

"Quite," Nightingale said. "It's very disconcerting the first time you see it, but fortunately he hasn't made them for some years. I don't think I've seen one of his swords since, oh, the Twenties."

"Isn't that a bit of a Health & Safety risk?"

"I think they got lost somewhere during the war," Nightingale said repressively, and at that Abigail knew better than to ask.

The doorbell rang two days later while she was having a meeting with Peter. They paused for a minute, making sure that Molly was going to go get it, but then Molly came in and gave both of them a look indicating that the caller was for them, so Abigail got up and went to the door.

There was a lanky white guy standing there, in sunglasses even though it was already dark. He was holding a package wrapped in paper and twine.

"Delivery for Ms. Abigail Kamara," he said. He even pronounced it _Miz_ , very clearly not _Miss_.

"That's me," she said. She thought it might be a book, from the shape. This was confirmed by the package's weight when it was tipped into her arms. She was careful to touch his jacket, just faintly, when he did. The vestigium was very different from Fell's: the sharp sick sensation of the drop after missing a stair step, the smell of burning rubber, and the humid plant and dirt smell of a greenhouse.

"Is that your car?" Peter said. He nodded down at an old car in good nick sitting at the front, probably in defiance of all parking laws.

"Yep," said the guy. She got the feeling he was eyeing Peter suspiciously, which was fair because Peter was eyeing him suspiciously right back.

"Where is this from?" Abigail asked.

"'s a gift, innit? Compliments of A.Z. Fell & Co." Peter made a teakettle noise and the guy added, "No obligation. That all right by you, Starling?"

"I thought he didn't like selling books," she said. The guy laughed.

"He doesn't," he said. "Consider it a lifetime loan, if you like."

"I'll do that," she said, and elbowed Peter to make him stop whatever he was doing.

"Ciao," the guy said. He sauntered down the front steps towards the car. Peter grunted and shepherded her back inside.

"What is it?" he said.

"It's a book," she said, putting it on the hall table next to the phone.

"Who's A.Z. Fell?"

"Bookshop in Soho," she said. "The owner collects books before the Folly can, when he can." She finished untying the twine and opened up the wrapping. Inside was a hardback book, bound library-style, with _On the Magical Origins of Urban Animal Intelligence_ written in Latin on the front. She opened the cover. It was from 1862, printed in Rome.

"How's he allowed to do that?" Peter said.

"I think he's fae, and there's an Agreement," she said.

**Author's Note:**

> It didn't make it in, but GO the book does actually exist in this setting - Pterry and Gneil just mixed up the details. Whether Aziraphale and Crowley are truly an angel and a demon, or some variety of fae, Peter will never know.
> 
> (also, in case you were worried - no, Abigail did not drink the tea.)


End file.
